


Let Him Now Speak

by fengirl88



Series: Trouble With Harry [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Infidelity, Jealousy, M/M, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-03
Updated: 2012-09-03
Packaged: 2017-11-13 01:07:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has come up with some mad ideas in the five, no, six years Lestrade's known him, but never one as mad as this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Him Now Speak

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Thanks to kalypso and kate_lear for beta wisdom and encouragement, and to both of them and thimpressionist and ginbitch for helpful conversations about the plot.
> 
> This fic is for thimpressionist, with affectionate birthday wishes.

Sherlock is wearing his best _wronged and misunderstood_ expression. The one that always makes Lestrade want to punch him.

“You _are_ joking,” Lestrade says again. “Tell me you're joking.”

Seriously, he is going to knock Sherlock's block off for this one. What's he really come here for? Because it can't be _this_. Can it?

“Come on, Lestrade,” Sherlock says. “Even _you_ must see it's the obvious solution.”

_Not_ joking, then. Christ. Sherlock has come up with some mad ideas in the five, no, six years Lestrade's known him, but never one as mad as this.

“Let me get this straight,” Lestrade says. Not the best choice of words, but he ploughs on regardless. “You want me and John to – go on seeing each other.”

Sherlock makes an impatient noise – doesn't like euphemisms, Lestrade remembers.

“OK, you want us to go on shagging. Better?” 

It's a struggle to keep his voice down, but he can't let himself shout at Sherlock the way he wants to, not with Donovan sitting at her desk just outside the door. What she'd say about Lestrade _sleeping with the Freak's boyfriend_ doesn't bear thinking about. 

“I want you to go on having sex, yes,” Sherlock says wearily. “Congratulations.”

“Don't get sarcastic with me, Sherlock, because I am _this_ close to putting you through that fucking glass door.”

Sherlock sighs. Goes on looking criminally underappreciated. 

“What I still don't understand is _why_ you would want that,” Lestrade says. _Don't miss next week's thrilling episode of Let's Make No Fucking Sense, starring Sherlock Holmes._

“John's. Not. Happy,” Sherlock says, like he's explaining basic arithmetic to an exceptionally slow five-year-old. “He's – moping.”

_Moping_. Something twists in Lestrade's chest at the thought of that: John moping because he wants _him_... Oh for fuck's sake, Lestrade, what are you, twelve?

“I don't _like_ it,” Sherlock says.

Oh, right. This is still about you, isn't it, you selfish git?

“He's no fun when he's like this,” Sherlock whinges. “It's interfering with my work.”

There's a sort of low growling noise. Takes Lestrade a minute to realize it's him.

“What?” Sherlock says indignantly. “It's _true_.”

Right. It probably would be hard to concentrate at close quarters with a moping John Watson. Anyone would want to hug him, comfort him, make it better somehow. Anyone but Sherlock, that is... Sometimes he wonders if Sherlock's even human.

Lestrade grinds his teeth.

“Stop making _noises_ ,” Sherlock complains. “You're as bad as he is. Look, it's perfectly simple. You want to have sex with him, he wants to have sex with you, god knows why, and it's fine with me. What's the problem?”

As satisfying as it would be to bang Sherlock's head repeatedly against the filing cabinet, Lestrade knows he mustn't. Can't risk damaging the equipment, never mind the resulting disciplinary action/dismissal/prison sentence –

“So John's on board with this?” he says, though he can hardly believe it. 

“He's at work,” Sherlock says. “I'll tell him when he comes – back.”

Doesn't want to say _comes home_ , Lestrade notices, wondering why not – and then he realizes what Sherlock's just said. 

“You'll _tell_ him? Christ, Sherlock, you can't just go around telling people what to do about their, their sex life.” 

Stumbling a bit there himself. Fuck. Too easy to imagine Sherlock's reaction if he'd actually said _love life_.

“John's not _people_ ,” Sherlock says. “He's –”

Yeah, go on, genius. What _is_ he to you? Looks like Sherlock is having trouble finishing that sentence.

“I don't know why you're being so difficult about this,” Sherlock grumbles. “It's a perfectly workable solution. Nobody wants you to move into Baker Street, and obviously I don't want John moving out, but it should be straightforward enough to draw up a timetable –”

Lestrade's not even conscious of the decision to hit him. First he knows about it is seeing Sherlock sprawled across the desk. That, and realizing he's skinned his knuckles.

“That _hurt_ ,” Sherlock says. He sounds more surprised than anything else. Obviously hasn't been punched nearly as often as he deserves. Though that probably goes without saying.

“Right,” Lestrade says, breathing hard. “Now piss off.”

“But –”

“Piss _off_ , Sherlock. I've got work to do and things to think about and you are _not helping_.”

Sherlock mutters something about _stupid pig-headed DIs_. He gets off the desk, holding his hand to his jaw.

“Better get that checked out,” Lestrade says. “Oh, I forgot, you've always got a doctor on tap. Lucky you.”

“Really, Lestrade –” Sherlock says reprovingly.

If he thinks he can take the moral high ground after this he's got another fucking think coming.

“Not going to tell you again,” Lestrade says. “Piss off.”

Sherlock goes out, looking a bit self-conscious, the way you do when someone's knocked you on your arse for _being_ an arse, and Lestrade picks up his scattered files and attempts to salvage what's left of the working day.

The image of John moping doesn't go away, though. He keeps thinking about that. Wanting to see John look happy again, the way he'd looked for a moment in the Volunteer, before he remembered he was supposed to be feeling guilty. The way he'd looked at Harry and Sarah's wedding, when he saw Lestrade in the registry office car park.

_Bloody_ Sherlock. John is wasted on him. Just Lestrade's luck. Falling for someone who's already taken is bad enough, never mind someone who's devoted to a selfish tosser like Sherlock... 

As for what the fuck Sherlock thought he was doing, waltzing in here saying he wants John and Lestrade to go on having sex when he hasn't even spoken to John about it –

Oh, and if he had spoken to John that would have been fine with you, would it? Timetables and all? _Get a grip, Lestrade, for crying out loud._

He stares at his laptop screen and the pile of paperwork on his desk. Might as well be bloody Sanskrit for all the sense he's making of it. Maybe a walk would help to clear his head. Get some fresh air, or what passes for fresh air in central London.

Donovan gives him a very funny look on his way out. He wonders if she saw him hit Sherlock, or drew her own conclusions from Sherlock's bruised face. He tries to look casual, hands in his pockets, whistling, but he's not sure he's fooling anyone. Not even himself.

The afternoon's still heavy in his mind as he walks and walks. He hopes Donovan didn't overhear them. Sherlock certainly wasn't bothering to keep his voice down.

He's not sorry he hit Sherlock. Shouldn't have done it on the premises, though. He hopes it won't come back to bite him in the arse. Donovan's not likely to shop him, not with the way she feels about Sherlock, but if anyone else saw... Should have had more control. 

Seriously, though, having that bastard going on about timetables as if John was a, a bloody _squash court_ or something... 

“Balls to that,” Lestrade mutters, glaring at the ducks in Regent's Park. Though maybe that should have been _Fuck this for a game of soldiers_. 

Hadn't meant to walk this far. Or in this direction. Maybe he'll stop off in the Volunteer for a swift half.

He looks at his watch: John must be home from work by now. He wonders if Sherlock really has told him. Wonders what he said.

What the hell _did_ Sherlock think he was playing at?

Being a selfish git, as per usual. Saying he wants John to stop moping because he's no fun and it's distracting. On the other hand –

On the other hand, at least Sherlock had actually _noticed_ John wasn't happy. Noticed, and tried to do something about it.

Made a complete bollocks of it, obviously, because he doesn't understand anything about emotions, but still. Bit of a first, Sherlock trying to make someone happy. Trying to give John something he wants. 

_It's what you want too. Isn't it?_

Lestrade smacks his forehead with the heel of his hand. Any minute now, he's going to start thinking Sherlock's a public benefactor instead of an infuriating tosser who got what was coming to him. 

_What would you do if John said yes?_

He hasn't let himself think about that. No fucking point. Not going to happen.

_Yes, but what **would** you do?_

Take what's on offer, even if there's going to be heartache further down the line? Kid yourself you could get him for keeps, when you know that wild horses couldn't drag him away from Sherlock?

He must be going off his head to be thinking about it, even for a moment. Been working too hard.

He _is_ thinking about it, though. Thinking about it, and practically on the doorstep of 221b. 

Fuck it. 

Lestrade pulls his phone out of his pocket, scrolls through his contacts and presses Call.

“Hallo?” Sherlock sounds nervous, which isn't like him. 

“You and John at home?” Lestrade asks. His heart's hammering and his mouth has gone dry.

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “Where are you?”

“Clarence Gate,” Lestrade says. 

“Coming here,” Sherlock says. It's not like him to state the obvious, but maybe he's really not sure.

“Yeah,” Lestrade says. “We need to talk. Unless you're about to tell me you made a mistake.”

The silence at the other end of the line feels like it's going on for ever.

Sherlock clears his throat. “See you in a minute, then,” he says.

“OK,” Lestrade says, and presses End call.

He crosses the road carefully, because it would be just his fucking luck to get run over right now, and heads for 221b.

**Author's Note:**

> Like Any Just Cause, Put Asunder, No Understanding, Forsaking All Other and Duly Considering The Causes, this fic takes its title from the Form of Solemnization of Matrimony in the Book of Common Prayer.
> 
> The imaginary television programme _Let's Make No Fucking Sense_ was invented by the creators of Channel 4's comedy series _Green Wing_ \- the relevant clip is [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_0OnX4hiXFY).


End file.
